


My Bloody Valentine

by henghost



Series: Amy Obsession [6]
Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Alien Sex, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23444284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henghost/pseuds/henghost
Summary: Amy has a bad Valentine's Day date, and then a very, very close encounter.
Relationships: Amy Dallon | Panacea | Red Queen/Victoria Dallon | Glory Girl | Antares
Series: Amy Obsession [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1527380
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	My Bloody Valentine

**Author's Note:**

> If Amy were real, there'd be no quarantine. Would it be worth it?

**I**

**Loveless**

This was on Valentine’s Day, several years back. The sun was shining a cold light across Brockton Bay, which bounced blindingly off the lingering snow. I was in Giuseppe’s, across from Dennis, a.k.a., Clockblocker. He’d asked the previous night while I was at the Wards building for some routine post-battle healing. “Hey, Amy, um, you don’t have a date tomorrow, right?” And I kind of glared at him. “What do you think?”

I knew it must’ve been out of pity, but it wasn’t like I had anything else to do. Victoria was spending the whole day with her boyfriend. The rest of my family/colleagues had made plans of their own. So what can you do? Dennis ordered a salad. I ordered ziti. 

“So,” he said. “What have you been up to?”

“You know,” I said between big forkfuls of pasta. “The usual.”

“Oh.”

Most of the conversation went like that. We didn’t have much in common besides our profession, and we both knew that was off limits. He would occasionally try to compliment me. “I respect what you do so much,” or, “You look really good today”. But it always sounded sarcastic or backhanded, and in the end I asked if we could finish our meals in silence, and he promptly agreed.

When we left the restaurant we found who else but Victoria and Dean, both in casual clothes. Dean had a very visible hickey and was looking at me like I had a terminal illness. Victoria’s hair was all over the place. 

“Wow!” she said. “Fancy seeing you here!” And she hugged me. Then she hugged Dennis, and I saw her slip a hundred dollar bill in his back pocket. Dean shook my hand.

“So how was it?” said Victoria. “Is it my imagination or are there sparks flying already?”

I bit my tongue. Dennis scratched his head. 

**II**

**When You Sleep**

I spent the rest of the evening in my bed listening to sad Irish music. “When you make me smile / And you turn your long blonde hair”. 

It shouldn’t have mattered. So what if my sister had to pay someone to ask me out? Courtship was a shell game anyway. Plus, I was under no illusions about my own desirability. I knew I was no prize. It was always going to take some monetary lubricant.

But, oh god, here came the tears. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair. How could the world be so cruel? Picture Victoria: tall and blonde and strong and perfect. Now picture me: short and lumpy and full of guilt. There was some discrepancy there. Everyone who might’ve loved me loved her instead. No one could ever love me. This was true, I saw it so clearly. I felt it deep within myself. 

Still, I wouldn’t allow myself to grow bitter. That wouldn’t be the right thing to do. The world was unfair? So what! This certainly was not the first time I had learned that lesson. Certainly things could be worse. At least I had someone who cared about me, even if that care was sometimes misguided. But at least I had that. Not everyone could say the same.

Over the melancholic music I heard Victoria and Dean enter her room, which was adjacent to mine. The walls in our house were paper thin. I could hear them giggling. They sounded drunk. I tried to make out the words: something about time, something about condoms. Then they were at it, and I could hear each thump of the headboard, the sighs, the whispered invocations. All in all, it — he — didn’t last longer than a minute. A little later I heard two sets of snores. 

Here came more pathetic, pathetic tears. And despite my inward admonitions about how there was no use crying over spilled milk (no pun intended), they wouldn’t stop. See this scene from above: one room holds two satisfied lovers, the other holds a lonely girl ashamed of her own misery. What separates the two? Nothing. Everything.

Anyway, after an hour or two of my useless blubbering, I made myself stand up and go to the bathroom. Between the door to my room and the door to the bathroom lay the door to Victoria’s room, which, I could see now, was slightly ajar. I bit the tip of my thumb. I shouldn’t, is what I said to myself. But that crevice of darkness called to me. Amy, it said, come here. Come see. And so I did. 

By moonlight trickling in through her window, I could see my sister’s face. Her mouth was open just a bit. Her hair had twisted into a golden crown. Her skin was smooth as satin. She appeared to me then as too perfect to be human. She was superhuman. There was no ‘para-’ involved. All at once I had no breath left. 

Dean was a black lump on the other side of the bed, and, against my wishes, my mind was filled with the notion that it should be me in his place. Right there, so close, tangled together in sweaty sheets. But I wasn’t Dean. I never would be, not for anyone, let alone my own sister. And I could breathe again.

But then, before I pulled away from the sight, something caught my eye: it was like the moon had grown brighter. Much brighter. Silver light came through the window in big overpowering blasts. And it grew and grew until it was as if someone had put a sheet of paper on the outside. And I turned and saw that it had happened to the window at the end of the hall, too, and I rushed to get a closer look, and the rest is a blur.

**III**

**What You Want**

When I came to, I felt the walls around me, which were foreign, to say the least. When I say I felt them, I mean with my power: the walls were alive. All around me was a massive and unnameable organism. I tried to use my power on it, but it felt like a million volts through my whole body, and I gave up trying. My head was full of cotton. 

Gradually I got to my feet. The walls and floor were sleek and black and gave the impression the room was endless. The ceiling was a rectangle of that same silvery light. What was strangest was that I was nude, and my clothes were nowhere to be found. Somehow this fact didn’t concern me much. There was a voice in my head that went: this is okay. Everything is as it should be. For the most part I found it difficult to focus on anything.

After an unknowable amount of time, the room filled with hazy, odorless gas. I started to panic, but the voice in my head grew louder. Hush now, it said. Don’t worry. You’re fine. Everything will be fine. And I believed it. I could breathe the gas, and its only effect was to nauseate me, which I relieved by vomiting in the corner of the room.

Where was I? I wondered without much urgency. Who had put me here? An enemy? A friend? It hardly seemed to matter. I sat on the floor whose texture was somewhere between skin and plastic, and I inspected my legs, which were, I decided, too hairy. 

Another block of fuzzy time passed, and I felt a tingling at the back of my neck like you get when someone stares at you. I stood and turned and behind me was a tall, vaguely humanoid figure. Their silhouette blurred and pulsed, and I couldn’t get a good look. I had no urge to cover myself, which even in my fugue state struck me as uncharacteristic. My companion tilted their head and took in all my imperfections.

Then, like a camera coming into focus, I could see who it was: my father, Mark, in his costume — Flashbang. He was shaking his head at me. No, that wasn’t quite right. It was my mother, in her capacity as Brandish. That was worse. That wouldn’t do. Now it was Dennis, not in a costume but as naked as me, with his penis swinging pendulously from a sourceless breeze. He looked me up and down and scrunched his face in frustration. Then I blinked and there was Victoria, also nude, and, as if in response to the lurch of my heart, she grinned and nodded her head and knelt to the ground. She patted the spot next to her —  _ plap plap!  _ — and I joined her.

She lifted some hair over my ear. “Victoria, what’s going on?” I asked in a dazed and heavy voice.

“Shh,” she said. Her voice sounded autotuned. “Everything is fine.”

“But, why are you—”

She put her index finger over my lips. There was something electric in her fingers. My face burned. My breathing had become heavy. She put her hands on either side of my waste and made me sit between her legs, facing away from her. I felt my blood go quicker in my veins. All at once, without inhibition, I realized: I wanted this. Everything was perfect. This was what I had been searching for my whole life. Hot tears spilled down my cheek.

Victoria whispered, “I love you. You are my sister, and I love you.” And she kissed the back of my neck, which sent shivers all across my body. I was weeping by now. She put her hands on my freckled thighs and opened my legs. She rubbed my stomach and my pelvis.

“Stop,” I said between sobs. “Please stop.” I was puffed and swollen and glistening between my legs. 

“You don’t want me to stop,” said Victoria. “You really don’t.” She turned my head and kissed my mouth, and I could smell my own breath: vomit. I tried to use my power to make her stop, but it didn’t work. I don’t why. It just wouldn’t come.

She massaged the lips of my vagina. She brushed her thumb over my clitoris. I swallowed and tried to keep from making much noise. My arms were limp and helpless beneath me. Then she pushed her middle finger inside me, and she giggled airily. I bit the inside of my cheek. Then her index finger, then her ring finger, then her little finger, and finally her thumb. I don’t know how, but I hardly felt it. All I felt was her hot breath against the back of my ear. Her hand was inside me, and I couldn’t feel a thing. There must have been anesthetic in the gas.

When she was submerged up to her forearm was when the pain began. Like a million needles against my cervix. At least, I think it was my cervix. I screamed and screamed, and Victoria put her soft hand over my mouth. I thrashed and writhed but she was so, so strong. She always was. 

Finally she pulled out of me, and where her hand had been there was now a kind of surgical instrument. And she let go of me and stood up. I lay on my back and stared up at her. She was giant. Her hair glistened under the burning white light. She rubbed her stomach like a pregnant mother might, and she pointed up at the ceiling. And then she left me there.

The last thing I remember is the sight of blood — too much blood — along the inside of my thighs. And I passed out, and when I woke up I was in my bed, still nude as the day I was born.

**IV**

**Touched**

I tried to convince myself it was only a dream. But I knew it wasn’t. How could it have been? It had been too vivid. Too real. Much too real. Plus, there was physical evidence. The first sign was there the following morning when I used the bathroom: there were reddish lumps along my labia and pubic mound, which I determined, after some frantic googling, were not herpetic. And there was an awful shooting pain when I peed.

The other symptoms took longer to notice. I started to get hot flashes, like I was in menopause. I didn’t get my period for three months after the incident. I didn’t dare tell a doctor any of this, of course. Oh, the cruel irony…

But worse than the pain was the pleasure. I remembered it all. The organic room, the shifting partner. I remembered her touch. My sister’s touch. Her hands, her mouth, her hot breath. I told myself how wrong it was. How disgusting and perverted and evil it was. But my skin, my sex, refused to forget. I couldn’t look her — the real Victoria — in the eye. Everything was different. Everything was the same. 

Finally I had to tell someone. I had to tell  _ her _ . So one night, after she came back from a patrol, sweating and wide-eyed with adrenaline, I asked to speak with her. Alone, in my room. “Sure, Ames, anything for you…”

“This is going to sound crazy,” I said.

“Everything you say sounds crazy.”

“Okay but I’m serious. I think I might have been abducted. You know, like, by aliens. Is that crazy enough for you?”

She sighed and sat on the floor. “Aliens, huh?”

“And, look, I know it’s insane, but I think they messed with, I don’t know, something inside me. My organs. My reproductive organs. My ovaries or my uterus or something, I don’t know. I know it’s insane. Do you, you know…”

“Believe you? Sure.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You know, I can _fly_ , Amy. I’ll believe anything. I think us parahumans are a kind of alien, anyway. At least, you’re about as weird as a creature from outer space, ha ha ha. Anyway, I think I’m about to pass out.” She stood and smoothed down her skirt. Her face shone with sweat. 

“You really believe me?” I asked.

“I really believe you. Can I go now?”

“Um, Victoria?”

“What?”

Here it was. Here she was, all ears, docile and receptive, ready for anything. I was going to tell her. I had to. There was no way around it. There was so much I wanted to say. I wanted to tell her exactly what had happened in the living UFO, I wanted to tell her how afraid I had been, but also how calm. I wanted to yell at her for paying someone to go out with me. I wanted to tell her not to fuck her boyfriend so loudly. I wanted to tell her to break up with him. I wanted to tell her how much I wanted her, and I wanted to say I knew how wrong it was. I wanted to tell her I loved her more than anything in the world. I wanted to tell her how much I loathed her guts. 

I said: “Nothing. Nevermind.”

“You’re weird, Amy.” And she walked away, and I lay on my bed and turned on my sad dreamy music and tried as hard as I could to recall the foreigner’s touch, and I found that, for the first time, I couldn’t.


End file.
